


From Your Lips to My Ears

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Deleted Scene: Aziraphale's Bookshop 1800 (Good Omens), Gen, Light Angst, M/M, Other, Possibly Unrequited Love, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 04:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21332116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: Crowley stops by the bookshop before it opens, and is surprised to find that Aziraphale is not alone.Listening in on his conversation is easy enough, until it isn't.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 107





	From Your Lips to My Ears

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, if you haven't read the 1800 deleted scene (or even if you have) I highly recommend watching [tiotrile's storyboard](https://tio-trile.tumblr.com/post/188825891934/so-istoryboarded-the-deleted-bookshop-scene-from), which is what sparked this little story in my head that I just had to write. Watch that first, in fact. Done it? Good. Proceed.
> 
> Secondly, if you're waiting for Falling From Grace, I'm sorry - I'm rewriting the next part but it shouldn't be too long in coming.
> 
> Anyway, this is for the one-shot lovers (and partly in the hope of getting some nice comment-based validation to cheer me up after counselling this afternoon). Enjoy!

Crowley has no trouble at all finding Aziraphale’s new bookshop, thanks to the sign above the door. He can almost imagine Aziraphale’s delight as the signwriter finished the last flourishes - _ absolutely tip-top, _he probably thought - and Crowley hopes he will be equally delighted when he sees that Crowley has brought him some chocolates to celebrate his upcoming grand opening.

He stops short in the open doorway when he realises that Aziraphale is not alone. The whole shop absolutely reeks of Heaven; he’s not sure what to do. It’s not a trap; Aziraphale would never do such a thing. Aziraphale looks up even as he thinks it, so Crowley does the only thing he can think of and gives a cheery wave. Aziraphale, already distressed, looks even more perplexed at the sight of him.

Which Crowley supposes is fair enough, given that Crowley is a demon and should absolutely not be within a mile of this shop or its angelic occupants, let alone bearing gifts.

“But only I can properly thwart the wiles of the demon Crowley,” Aziraphale says, a hint of desperation in his voice, and Crowley realises there’s something going on. If the angels haven’t noticed him yet, they probably won’t - but they’re there for a reason, and something is making Aziraphale more uncomfortable than the prospect of getting caught fraternising with Crowley ever has. Well, more than it has in centuries, anyway.

_ “Chocolates,” _ he mouths, pointing at the box he’s holding, and he doesn’t know if he’s trying to cheer Aziraphale up with the promise of a tasty treat once the angels - Gabriel, he realises, and another one he never bothered to learn the name of - are gone, or if he’s trying to head off another panic about their friendship. _ Spending time with me can’t be wrong if I bring you nice things, _ or something like that. He doesn’t know. He’s pathetic, when it comes to Aziraphale. He accepted that long ago.

“I do not doubt that whoever replaces you-” and that’s a horrible thought, surely nobody can replace Aziraphale, they can’t take away his only friend on Earth, “-will be as good an enemy to Crowley as you are,” Gabriel insists. “Michael, perhaps.”

No. No, that’s not happening. That can’t be allowed to happen.

_ “Michael?” _ he mouths, and sees Aziraphale frown slightly, _ “Michael’s a wanker!” _

Aziraphale locks his gaze on Gabriel with what looks like a great deal of effort, ignoring Crowley altogether. “Crowley’s been down here just as long as I have. And he’s wily, and cunning and brilliant and oh…” His voice trails off until it’s barely more than a low murmur.

“It almost sounds like you like him,” Gabriel scoffs, and Aziraphale turns bright pink.

When he speaks next, his voice is so soft that Crowley has to rely on his talent for lipreading to understand him. Even then, he’s sure he’s got it wrong. He must have done. There’s absolutely no way that Aziraphale would be _ stupid _ enough to look the Archangel Gabriel in the eye and say, _ I love him. _

It would be a certain way to Fall, no question about it, which is why it absolutely can’t be what he's just said - but Crowley’s mind races off all the same, making plan upon plan to catch his angel the moment he reaches Hell, to soften the landing with his own feathers; to make a comfortable nest around him where he can heal, where he can learn to be free of Heaven, where they can plot to free him from Hell as well, because Aziraphale doesn’t belong down there but he does belong with _ Crowley_, and they can make it work, somehow, because if Aziraphale has just said _ I love him _ then they will just have to work around his Fall and they can finally be happy, together-

“I loathe him,” his brain translates belatedly, and then Aziraphale continues in a stronger tone as Crowley’s heart shatters silently outside. “And, despite myself, I respect a worthy opponent… Which he isn’t because he’s a demon and I cannot respect a demon. Or like one.”

Crowley has heard enough; he can’t listen to it any more. He’s heard it a thousand times, repeated it to himself in his own mind a million more; he is a _ demon _ and Aziraphale is an _ angel _ and never the twain shall meet. And, yes, they _ do _ meet, but they will never be together, never _ can _ be, and Aziraphale would never want them to be. Well, it sounds as though the poor angel won’t have to put up with him for much longer, because he’s being welcomed back to Heaven with open arms. And Crowley won’t even miss him, because he doesn’t care, and also because Michael _ is _a wanker and will gut Crowley with a Holy Blade the moment she first sets eyes on him. He should just get out of London, really. Out of Europe. He should go and see what’s happening in New Zealand, or somewhere.

He glares resentfully at the tailor Gabriel frequents on his infrequent visits to Earth; he’s fairly certain Mr. Davidson’s skill with a pair of scissors and a measuring tape is the only reason Aziraphale’s been subjected to such frequent check-ins over the last twenty years or so. He’s tempted to go in there and cut a strategically-placed hole in the suit the archangel has no doubt ordered, intolerable dandy that he is - and then something occurs to him.

Aziraphale didn’t look happy about going home.

Of course he didn't, because he isn’t - Heaven has none of the things Aziraphale loves best, except perhaps God, and even She may not be up there. There are no quaint cafés, no exciting new ways of serving sugar as a treat, no music, no jokes. _ No Crowley_, he almost lets himself think, and then he shakes the thought from his head. Aziraphale might not mind a lack of Crowley - it would certainly be a quieter, easier life for him - but he would certainly miss pianos and silver spoons and snuffboxes. The angel has a weird obsession with snuffboxes, and he never seems to question the steady growth of his collection even when he doesn’t add to it himself. Crowley has been known to contribute, on occasion, not that the angel notices. That’s the idea; he’s not supposed to notice, because if he notices he might stop Crowley from doing it, and Crowley _ likes _buying snuffboxes he has no use for. Aziraphale has no use for them, either, but his collection is as good a place as any for Crowley to keep his excess purchases.

_ Aziraphale doesn’t want to go home, _ Crowley thinks, as he ducks down the alley behind the tailor’s shop, already snapping his fingers for a pair of scissors… and then he spots a dressmaker’s dummy, propped against an open door. Behind the dummy, a bolt of black cloth. Scissors already in hand, it is the work of moments to purloin a length of fabric, throw it over the dummy’s head like a cloak, and let the door swing shut as he drags the whole lot further into the alleyway. He angles it just so, pins the fabric into position with a few well-placed demonic miracles, and waits with bated breath as the scent of Heaven becomes stronger and stronger again. He waits until he can feel an angelic presence right by the tailor’s back window, and then he leaps into action with all the dramatic flair Shakespeare had so admired back in the day.

“Are you certain that we are unobserved, oh monstrous creature from the bowels of Hell?” He warps his voice into something grotesque, allowing his natural sibilance to come out and rasping as if he’s just gargled sandpaper. ** _“No one is listening, oh demon Crowley.”_ **

Crowley turns his head, just a fraction, and glimpses an unfortunately familiar face at the window behind him; the Archangel Gabriel must be standing on a stool, to see out of it. His plan is working. It will work.

Aziraphale will be loathing him for a long time, yet.


End file.
